Sleepless in the Suburbs

As I lay on the couch last night in the middle of the night, awake for the umpteenth time, I was thinking how the previous several hours felt like a comedy of errors. The story actually begins about the 19th of this month when Adam started complaining of a sore throat.  His throat was indeed red with his enlarged tonsils. Whenever he has a sore throat, it takes me back to the end of February 2007 when I proverbial kick myself for not getting his tonsils out while we had his adenoid removed.  But lest not I digress. No fever, no other symptoms but we keep him from helping out in hospitality at church and keep an eye on him, giving him our preventive medicine prescribed by the doc for just this situation on top of cold medicine to sleep. And I pray, hard.  Not that there is ever a good time to be sick, but this was an especially bad time to have the symptoms creep up on us. Adam's cello and chorus concert was just a mere 3 days away, as his class party, and lest we not forget, Christmas. Just a few weeks earlier he had suffered through the stomach flu so this just seemed especially bad timing.

By Monday, Adam's sore throat is not as sore but he gets the sniffy nose. Typical progression for him. But no fever and he's not feeling all that bad. But enter Elise. She is starting to sniffle too, throwing away Kleenex as if they grew on trees. There was a box of Kleenex lining the trash can looking as if they belonged back in the box. Seriously. One little wipe on the nose does not mean the Kleenex is used. Arggh. But again, I digress.

I tell Adam, "You are going to the concert whether or not you are sick. You can't miss it. No way". He agrees. Just get through Friday, I think to myself. After Friday, feel free to be sick. Please. God had mercy on us and Wednesday came and went, Christmas Eve, Christmas Day. We made it. No worse the wear. By Christmas weekend, Adam is fine.

Elise being who she is with the chronic sinus issues begins to cough at night.  Only at night.  The cough lingers all week progressively getting worse. Which leads me to last night.  If you follow me on Facebook, you know that Tony has been sanding, refinishing and painting new furniture for our little darling and started painting her room yesterday. Because the room was empty, Elise needed alternate sleeping arrangements. On her old mattress on our bedroom floor was the plan. Our plan. Not Elise's. God love her (and us, too!) she can be stubborn. Maybe it is typical little girl strong willed bent, or the second born temperament, but she is headstrong. And anything having to do with food or sleep can be an especially difficult issue to force. Trying to pacify her, we cajole her into obedience by saying she can sleep in our bed and we'll use a night light in our bathroom. Agreed.

Elise is tucked away into bed, fully medicated and quiet. Battle won.  The next battle for me was deciding to up my sleep medicine that night. No small undertaking at this stage in the medication challenge. After my latest frustrating sleep study results, it is decided that I need to pursue resolution to this stubborn problem an entirely different direction with new meds. A gradual increase by 100 mg. per week for 6 weeks until my medicine reached the maximum dose of 600 mg. Sounds like a lot but for seizures (the true use of this drug) the medication is usually dosed at 1,500 to 2,000 mg., so my dose is actually quite small.  However, with each 100 mg. dose it is reported dramatic day time sleepiness for the first two to three days of increase. Thus, the increments need to small and infrequent, and to this point was every Friday night so that if drowsiness was going to occur, it would be on a weekend when I had my husband for back up. Usually when the doctor has warned me of this grogginess (feels like a sleepy hang-over), it hits me like a mack truck. Making my final leap to maximum dosage was going to be the toughest and there really is no good time for it. Since Tony is home on vacation through Sunday it really needed to be now or never.

We hear her coughing in bed for about an hour and decide to up her medicine dose. This quieted her for about an hour, long enough for me to crawl into bed on the other side of her. What I didn't realize is that the previous hour would be the quietest of the night. No sooner am I tucked into bed next to her, groggy from my sleep meds, does she start snoring--and then coughing--snoring some more--coughing some more and just for a bonus, kicking me in the back at regular intervals. This was definitely not working for me. Not at all. After laying there for about an hour, watching the clock near 11 p.m. I leave the comfort of my own bed to lay on her crib-sized mattress on our floor. Maybe if I hadn't been so tired it would have occurred to me to move her onto the floor and for me to stay in the bed, but I was too tired to think clearly. Obviously.  Maybe being a few feet away from her coughing would make it easier to sleep. You'd think anyway. Finally, midnight approaches and I ask for back up. Tony has wisely grabbed his pillow and a blanket and had been crashing on the couch. I don't know if it's because he saw me on her mattress or heard her coughing every 5.5 seconds but he was wise enough to sleep far, far away. He obediently comes upstairs to re-medicate her, probably bordering on a dose big enough for Adam, but we were desperate. Here is where True Love showed herself by Tony offering me the couch so that maybe I could get a few hour's sleep. The bad thing about sleep meds is that you have to sleep a minimum of 8 hours to not be groggy the whole next day. And with the risk of that anyway, today was not looking good.

The rest of the night I slept fitfully on the couch. Not that I am complaining; I'm not. I certainly had the better end of the deal. Poor Tony's been working his little heart out all week on Elise's room. He needed a good night's sleep more than me. But he also knows how I am when I'm extra sleep-deprived. Again, I'd say it's not pretty. My night's end came around 5:30 when I feel my precious little one tap me on the back. "Time to get up now, Mommy?". Back to bed, honey. It's still dark out. As far as I know she complied. Until 6 a.m. Repeat. Finally at 7 a.m. she made one last attempt to get up.  For the life of me I couldn't figure out how she wasn't sleeping until 10 since she had been coughing all night, but here she was ready to start the day. Blindly, I turn the TV on for her and crawl back into my bed. Certainly not a finest Mommy moment but too tired to care. I vaguely remember mumbling something to Tony about her being awake. I'm not sure but I think he dozed back off. At some point though, he did get up with the kids while allowing me to sleep until 9.

Come to find out she asked to sleep in her bed on the floor at some point during the night--or maybe it was during the early morning attempts at starting her day. Apparently Tony's sleep was not exactly quality. All I can say though is that I'll be glad to leave 2009 behind as long as I can leave behind our own version of musical beds and start fresh with 2010!

Humble Beginnings

"Today in the town of David a Savior has been born to you; he is Christ the Lord. This will be a sign to you. You will find a baby wrapped in cloths and lying in a manger (because there was no room for them in the inn.)" (Luke 2:12b,7b).

Arguably this is one of the most well known and retold stories of all time. Growing up I can imagine Jesus asking his mother to retell the story time and time again. The odd circumstances surrounding his birth -- from his conception to his actual birth. A miracle given from God for all time.  I also imagine Mary never expected her first born child to be born under the intrigue and hand of God Almighty himself.

Personally, I look at the details surrounding my birth and find them rather unremarkable. Yes, I had the RH Factor resistance and received 7 blood transfusions pre- and post-birth after being given almost zero chance of survival.  My mom said you have never seen a needle until you see one long enough to be inserted through your abdominal wall and  into your womb. Never mind the little injection needles; they are nothing, she would say with a smile.  Perhaps my story is fascinating enough that my children, particularly Elise if she is lucky enough to be blessed by children, would enjoy hearing retold over time.

I suppose it is the ordinary nature under which most of us are born that I never really thought much about my parent's early years either. Obviously my mom has a unique story of her childhood, but honestly, I never really took a closer look into the life she lived before the internment until this last spring as I watched the SHOAH Foundation tapes.

She was born one wintery day in the late 1930's in a little village named Veliko Srediste in the South Banat district of Yugoslavia.  Despite the translation in German for Veliko to mean "large", this small Serbian town is often not found on maps. The largest town nearby would be Vrsac located near the Hungary border. Before the Russians invaded her small village,  my mom recalled beautiful trees and gardens that cascaded across the acres often found between homes. Mountain peaks were visible along the outside of town. The small homes were overshadowed by the beauty of the countryside. Yugoslavia was a beautiful green, lush country.

Born to mother Anna and father Franz Bohn, her earliest rememberances began around age 5 while living with her mom's parents Anna and Thomas Dernetz and her Uncle Josef, who was approximately 15 years old. It was not uncommon for multiple generations to live under one roof. The house the six of them lived in was a small white-washed home with dirt floors. When asked about the details of the home for her visual history testimonial, she could only recall two rooms, the kitchen and a bedroom. The central piece of the kitchen was the homemade kitchen table and chairs. The memory of the bedroom was limited to one, recalling sitting on the edge of a bed playing with her doll as her mother said goodbye-- the prison guards waiting nearby to escort her to go by coal car to Russia as a slave laborer.

When asked she could only recall a handful of happy memories from the first few years of her life. Sadly, even the earliest of memories distinct from the concentration camps were marred with abuse and hardship. Her favorite memory was of a beautiful mulberry tree in her yard. The fruit was plentiful and she recalled being covered in red juice from eating as much as her belly desired.  She also remembered going in the orchards with her mom as her mom worked. She would run and play and explore nature, gathering small flowers, trying to keep out of her mother's way. Times were not easy but my mom remembered them being carefree days since my grandma insisted she was too young to help out.

As she was recounting memories, it struck me that what she did remember was solitary. The other children she remembered  interacting with were older school aged children, who were too busy with school work and helping out with chores to take time out to play with her very often.  Having grown up as an only child without memories of having friends until she was in America, my mom was very purposeful in providing us siblings and to create a lot of happy memories for us growing up. Every generation wants their children to be happier and have more than what they had the generation before. My mom was no different in that desire. And neither am I.  I want to give my kids as good a childhood as I had, if not better. We cannot change or re-write our history but we can preserve it by talking about it and making sure that we do not leave this earth with stories that are better shared.  Every day we are creating that 'history' for our children to one day talk about with their children and the generations to follow.  And that legacy is one I am proud to claim as my own and pray will become a family tradition.

Sweet Silence of Relief

Happiness. Contentment. Peace. Joy. Agape love. Romantic love. Accomplishment. Satisfaction. These are all common attributes and emotions that if asked, what is your favorite, likely one of these would be your answer. Afterall, who doesn't want to be happy or joyful? We all want to experience love from another human being. Content and peacful in the midst of our circumstances.  They are all emotions any of us would like to experience at any given time.

In our day of want and greed and keeping up with the Joneses, I'd bet that a lot people polled would answer accomplishment. Men in particular are driven by their careers and find a lot of their identity wrapped up in their successes at work. As a mother, I certainly judge my accomplishments by the house I keep, the raising of my children, and the health of my marriage.  Are my kids polite, well behaved, educated? Is my life in order or chaos? Would my husband see me as the Proverbs 31 woman, finer than gold, satisfying his needs so that he is not tempted by pornography or by other women? Accomplishment is a big one for sure.

While there is certainly nothing wrong with any of these "answers" mine is actually quite different. For me, my favorite emotion is relief.  Oh, the joys of relief. 

Finding the right combination of medication to be free of pain.

The relief of financial burdens by an unexpected gift or raise or bonus. Or in today's economy, finding a stable career after under- or un-employment. Relief that the mortgage or rent is paid and you have food on your table.

Finding your lost keys or wallet. Relief.

The relief of loneliness and fear when your loved one returns from serving our country in war-times.

Whether it is the simple every day moments you find yourselves breathing a sigh of relief -- the grouchy child has just fallen asleep at naptime, or your to-do list is checked off and you can sit back and relax -- or the major moments, selling a home and moving or completing a huge project by its deadline--relief is an awesome feeling.

Whereas I look at being happy or joyful as being more subjective and elusive on some days, relief is something I find myself feeling several times a day. Ahh...you can almost hear it.

New Year's Resolution

With Christmas just around the corner, the new year is also almost upon us. New Year's resolutions. Those 3 words can evoke a myriad of  negative emotions: fear, doubt, angst, terror, defeat. In a perfect world they would rather inspire or challenge you to let go of a bad habit -- smoking, over eating, alcohol bingeing, etc. It might encourage you to develop patterns of preferred behavior -- exercise, healthful eating, spending more time with your family.

I've never been one to make New Year's resolutions in the traditional sense. Being a rule follower, I don't live my life in extremes. As far as lifestyles go, I am pretty balanced. Imagine my surprise when at my physician's office last week he suggested that to encourage better sleeping,  I cut out my two cups of coffee per day, tweek my eating habits and add a minimum of 30 minutes of cardio exercise on the days I do not go to the gym. I looked at him like he had two heads. Aren't I already ahead of the curve? Work out 7 days a week--really? There have been several weeks where getting to the gym my usual 3 days a week is a stretch. Of course, I have my various work out DVD's that I could pop in front of the TV to exercise from home. Am I likely to do it? Not so much. Let's just say that if I were to work out even 5 or 6 days a week, give up all my caffeine and eat even more healthy than I already do, I am going to register for the Gateway Naturals Bodybuilders Competition. That kind of discipline had better have some pretty big perks. Seriously, he's nuts.

Having said that, there are areas of my life where I could use a resolution or two to improve upon things. Speaking more kindly to my husband and kids is a big one. Isn't it a shame that the people we love the most are often the ones who we can be the most short-tempered with? Mine stems from two sources: Fatigue and maybe a little too much face time. Please don't misunderstand me: I love being a stay at home mom. The last nine years have been a huge blessing and I've been there to see all their milestones and have shared memories with them. But having a child home with me full time over the last nine years has had it's challenges. I rarely get the opportunity to "miss" my kids, to appreciate a time apart. Regarding Tony, again, I love him dearly. But men and women don't always understand each other and we've had our share of disagreements and flat out wars over the years. A peaceful household is a definite resolution toward striving for--starting with ME.

Another big area that could use some tweeking is finances. Despite the recession, Tony has earned a few substantial raises and promotions in recent years. For that we are grateful. Years of annual family court modifications and appearances, years of child support payments, and just the cost of raising 4 kids, we are managing year by year. Deciding to be a "one income family" has had it's challenges and good financial stewardship is a must. My parents taught me well and fortunately, Tony and I are both financially responsible people. However, I could certainly be a bit more thrifty and responsible. As the sole bill payer of our family, it is up to me to see that we are wise with how the money is spent. In the last few years I've attempted to track our bills and income -- watching where some careless spending is occuring. Perhaps a personal goal for me is to track our expenses in 2010 more closely. Fortuantely, child support will likely end in the next twelve months -- the two sets of braces we are paying on currently will eventually be paid for -- no more preschool tuition after April. Many areas of financial freedom are forthcoming. I would love nothng more than for my husband to get the car of his dreams in the next 18 months. He's been driving an 11 yr old old (faithful) car and it's his turn to enjoy the fruits of his labor. That would make me really happy for him.  Yes, financial stewardship is a goal for me -- one that will bring security for my family and help us sleep easier at night.

Personally, I like that the only New Years Resolutions I make is to not make any. That is the one I can keep!

Why Women Should Not Take Men Shopping

After I retired, my wife insisted that I accompany her on her trips to Target. Unfortunately, like most men, I found shopping boring and preferred to get in and get out. Equally unfortunate, my wife is like most women - she loves to browse. Yesterday my dear wife received the following letter from the local Target.

Dear Mrs. Samuel,

Over the past six months, your husband has caused quite a commotion in our store. We cannot tolerate this behavior and have been forced to ban both of you from the store. Our complaints against your husband,

Mr. Samuel's offenses are listed below and are documented by our video surveillance cameras.

June 15: Took 24 boxes of condoms and randomly put them in other people's carts when they weren't looking.

July 2: Set all the alarm clocks in House wares to go off at 5-minute intervals.

July 7: He made a trail of tomato juice on the floor leading to the women's restroom.

July19: Walked up to an employee and told her in an official voice, 'Code 3 in House wares. Get on it right away'. This caused the employee to leave her assigned station and receive a reprimand from her Supervisor
that in turn resulted with a union grievance, causing management to lose time and costing the company
money.

August 4: Went to the Service Desk and tried to put a bag of M&Ms on layaway.

August 14: Moved a 'CAUTION - WET FLOOR' sign to a carpeted area.

August 15: Set up a tent in the camping department and told the children shoppers he'd invite them in if they would bring pillows and blankets from the bedding department to which twenty children obliged.

August 23: When a clerk asked if they could help him he began crying and screamed, 'Why can't you people just leave me alone?' EMT's were called.

September 4: Looked right into the security camera and used it as a mirror while he picked his nose.

September 10: While handling guns in the hunting department, he asked the clerk where the antidepressants were.

October 3: Darted around the store suspiciously while loudly humming the Mission Impossible' theme.

October 6: In the auto department, he practiced his 'Madonna look' by using different sizes of funnels

October 18: Hid in a clothing rack and when people browsed through, yelled 'PICK ME! PICK ME!'

October 21: When an announcement came over the loud speaker, he assumed a fetal position and screamed 'OH NO! IT'S THOSE VOICES AGAIN!'

And last, but not least:

October 23: Went into a fitting room, shut the door, waited awhile then yelled very loudly, 'Hey! There's no toilet paper in here.' One of the clerks passed out.

Old Man Winter

I am a snow baby with this being my birth month. According to the Zodiac, I was also born under the sign of fire. Heat versus cold....heat will edge out cold for me any day!! Can I just put it out there that I really dislike winter. I know I have several friends who live for winter. They love snowmobiling, skiing -- basking in the snow. Not me. At all! I. do. not. like. winter. Just so that we're clear.

Spring, Summer, Fall, Winter. That would sum of my favorite seasons in descending order. Maybe I'd like it more if we had true winters. I've never researched it but I think we must be the ice capital of the mid-west.  Cold temperatures definitely, but we don't see a lot of snow. It rains a lot, which I think is odd. It's raining today. And since it is in the 20's, it's cold nasty rain. What's up with that? At least with snow, it's pretty and predictable. But with cold rain, it's just yuck. And when it freezes into ice, stay off the roads. St. Louisans really don't know how to drive in anything but sunny conditions.The overcast sky that takes up temporary residence, often not showing the sun for weeks at a time, adds to the ick factor. Seasonal mood disorders from a lack of sun. Pretty depressing. Literally.

Prediction for an inch of snow? News coverage around the clock; the grocery stores have stampedes like it's Thanksgiving eve. Really? Stupid people. 

What I dislike about winter is having to bundle myself and my kids before leaving the house--coats, hats, gloves, scarves. Hassle to buckle my daughter into her car seat in the winter. The summer no problem. With a pair of flip flops and cute little short/top outfit, you are good to go. Much more forethought into leaving the house in the winter. When it does manage to snow, it's the melting gooky snow left behind from tire tracks and footprints that end up on your car floorboard and kitchen floor that is just gross. Yep, I am not a fan of winter.

Of course there are a few things I love about winter. An excuse to snuggle up on the couch with a mug of hot chocolate with mini-marshmallows. And soup. I love making soups once or twice a week. Definitely love the warm comfort of food in the winter. Changing over my summer wardrobe to winter clothes is kind of fun, too. To be clear, it's a necessary evil to change over my kid's clothes, too, which is decidedly on a top 10 list of things I do NOT like. But for me, I like it. I find sweaters and boots I had forgotten about--or a a find a reason to add a few pieces of clothing to my wardrobe.  And I do love the quiet falling snow, undisturbed by people or animals. It can be beautiful to watch while in the comfort of your warm house.

Oh, there is one more thing I like about winter.....When winter has officially arrived, I can start the countdown to my favorite season and I know when it arrives in March or maybe early April I have a full 8 or 9 months to enjoy before having to deal with old man winter. Yes. THAT is my favorite part about winter.

Tis the Season

It may surprise many people to know this, but I struggle with getting into the Christmas spirit. And that has been true for most of my adult life.

Actually, I think there are several elements interfering with being joyful this time of year. As a young adult, it started with the fact that my two sisters, my mom and myself have November-December birthdays. It's always been a challenge for me to focus on Christmas when there are several birthdays that are immediately before it. Then enter married life. I recall meeting Tony's extended family at Easter and them asking when my birthday fell. When I said the date, they all reacted the same "Of course it is". Their reaction was fitting. Why? Tony and his twin, their sister Holly, sister in law Karin, my father in law and oldest niece all have December birthdays. Add that to the mix of Olsen birthdays and it's enough to make any one's head spin. Talk about stress coming up with double the gift ideas--and double the money.  Unfortunately, the financial stress in November and December doesn't help matters. A few of my best friends also have December birthdays. Seriously, couldn't we spread the wealth just a little?

Decorating the tree, decking out the house--interior and exterior, baking special Christmas treats, planning and shopping, wrapping gifts, Christmas parties, Christmas shows, school productions.  The list is endless this time of year. When you are already busy the insanity of this time of year is mind-boggling. Yes, I struggle to actually enjoy and appreciate this time of year.

Jesus. My Christian roots are really what's important and yet somehow the Christmas season is less and less about Him and more about the hustle and bustle of traditions and keeping up with how everyone else is celebrating. What it comes down to for me is that all this attention is focused on our Savior's birth--Carols are sung, manger scenes are proudly displayed, Jesus buttons appear on lapels--and it's accepted, even encouraged. But come December 26 it's over. And for another 11 months society will tell us it's NOT alright to proclaim his name or boldly talk about Christ. Yes, getting in the spirit is difficult for me. Society's contradiction squashes down my excitement.

I don't need Christmas to celebrate the greatest man ever born; my Savior and Lord. I do that 365 days a year. And I do it authentically, consistently and passionately. I'll gladly put away my Christmas tree, put away my Christmas music and cookie recipes for another year. Jesus for me is more than an abstract concept to be celebrated once a year. He's in my heart every day.

What's in a Name

When asked "What is Elise's middle name?"  I usually smile as I answer "Kathryn, after my mom." It's not the name that makes me smile...it's the story behind the name that cracks me up.

My mom's first name is Hilda--an Ethnic German name meaning "Battle woman", which I think is appropriate for a woman with her heritage. Yugoslavian born, she was given a common name for the time. Her mom used to call her Hilde, with the distinct pronunciation difference. I wonder if her birth certificate would have actually shown the alternate spelling rather than the "a"  With birth certificates of that time destroyed, we will never know. Those documents simply do not exist--anywhere. 

My mom's middle name is Kathryn, which does not in my mind jive with her first name. Totally not ethnic German; in fact, Kathryn is Greek for "pure". My mom did not know why her middle name was Kathryn -- although I think I have an explanation. Maybe. My grandma had an older sister who died at the tender age of 6 months. Her name was Katharina. It wasn't until my mom discovered a little booklet with birth and death dates--and dates of their internment in the camps--that we even knew she existed. By the time we knew of Katharina, my grandma had died, so there was no one to ask the details. It makes sense to me that my mom was named after her deceased aunt.

Being so young at the time they emigrated from Yugoslavia, my mom never was able to explain how they could make "legal" travels without proof of who they were. My grandma wouldn't explain, either. My mom seemed to believe that there were a lot of falsified documents along the way and it was only by God's grace that they were never caught--and able to declare naturalization as citizens after they came to the United States. I wonder if my grandma gave my mom a more Americanized identity and intentionally changed her middle name from Katharina to Kathryn. Just a theory, I suppose, but Katharina translates to the American Katherine. Totally plausible if not substantiated.

One day while in my last trimester of pregnancy with Elise, I was visiting my mom at my parent's house. She asked me to grab her driver's license from her wallet. Glancing at the license, I notice her middle name was Catherine. Red flag for me -- her granddaughter was going to be named after her.

"Mom, that is not how you spell your middle name." I said, matter of factly."You know I am naming Elise after you and we are spelling it the way I know it to be."

"Oh, honey." she responded. "I never remember how to spell my middle name. It never mattered before."

"Well, it matters now since I am naming her after you. At least after the part of your name that you like." adding with a smile.  My mom never liked her name, which is probably no surprise. She even went by the nickname Kitten in high school. Thankfully, her nickname did not follow her into adulthood. At one point as a young adult, she had considered changing her name, but did not want to offend her mom--and she wasn't trying to alter her past so figured it was best just to keep it "Hilda." I recall a horribly stupid television show called The $1.98 Beauty Pageant. It ran back to back with the equally horrific The Gong Show. My mom was horrified when one of the contestants was a fat slobbish housewife named Hilda Olsen. Yeah. That was not my mom's favorite moment. It wasn't funny at the time--and truthfully, I don't think she ever found the humor in it.

Fast forward to early to mid 2007.  My mom was completing a "Grandmother Book" for my sister's daughter at a request by my sister; hopefully, putting onto paper the Grandma her young daughter would never otherwise know. Fortunately my sister had the forethought to do that since her daughter would barely be two at my mom's death. Because she was working on this book, my mom called me on the telephone one day. 

"Honey, now HOW do you spell my middle name again?" she asked.

I remember smiling on the other end of the receiver. Well if nothing else, my mom was consistent. And we all know the answer to that question now. Everyone except maybe my mom herself!

....As the Candle Burns

For the first time I noticed a candle today at my dad's house. A large light red candle with dried wax along side of it's awkwardly-shaped remains. It certainly was not a pretty candle--one that I imagine wasn't pretty to start with.  It sits on the second shelf over my mom's computer desk. And there it still sits even two years after her death.  From the looks of it, the candle was well-used and now sat dormant along side the corner of the office free of use.

My parents each had their own desk with my mom's being far more elaborate and useful than my dad's. From the looks of it, my mom's desk is generally untouched. My parents converted our old billiards room in the front of the house into their office or den area. For not working outside the home for many years, my mom's desk was utilized fully. She had files for her very successful E-Bay business; had filing cabinets full of her animal charity work--and even some files dating back to the days when she worked for her attorney-friend sending out collection letters.

Most noticeably, though, are the trinkets and personal affects that adorn the shelves. My favorite piece is the ceramic baby harp seal.  That was the first animal rights cause my mom joined. In fact, I wrote a very well-received term paper my senior year about the plight of the baby harp seals. That cause was a platform for my mom to realize that there were a lot of animals who needed human intervention to keep them safe and protected. That seal speaks volumes to me in who my mom was, what she believed it, and what she was passionate about.

Another favorite piece is a beautiful ceramic African elephant planter. She got that as a gift from the neighbor across the street on her last Christmas.  This was just one of many elephant pieces she owned. Honestly, I never understood where she developed a love of elephants. On a Friday, Pam and I spent a day cleaning their house as a surprise for when she came home from the hospital. I remember so vividly dusting the shelf that proudly displayed several elephants, carelessly breaking off the trunk of her favorite one. I got disproportionately upset about it , knowing even in the moment that it wasn't really about the elephant. Fortunately, my dad was able to repair him. Unfortunately, my mom never made it home.

Gazing across the desk, I also noticed a box of tissues. It seemed oddly out of place. Opening her drawer, looking for a paperclip I scanned the contents. Surely my dad had rummaged through the office supply drawer looking for a post-it-note or highlighter, but it struck me how largely it was untouched.

Even today, as I entered the front door to my parent's house, I gazed to my left as if looking for my mom. It was at her desk she spent most of her time -- either working or playing games. Gem Shop was her favorite game, although she loved Iggle Pop and Jewel Drop, too. It was at that desk that my mom grew suspicious of the cancer growing inside her. She started experiencing back and belly pains and often noticed it while at the desk. The doctor had suggested getting a new chair. I think even the weeks leading up to the diagnosis--one that should not have taken so long to get--she knew something was wrong beyond the ill-fitting chair the doctor claimed it was. Although my dad would defend the doctor, my mom shared with me her frustration in the 3 months it took to be diagnosed--even with all the advancements and clear indicators of a serious illness. Three months is valuable time lost with a pancreatic cancer diagnosis and she knew it. My mom was rarely sick -- rarely ever visited the doctor-- so for him to put her off for so long really "irked" my mom, as she would say.

My dad has been steadfast and diligent in remodeling the house--directing his grief in a positive manner. The office is one of the next projects. Although "next" seems to be the operative word. He has acknowledged that my mom's desk would be better suited for him--that it would be beneficial to combine work spaces and get rid of excess furniture. Easier said than done, I wonder. As he remodels the house, it has become his space -- one that does not include her. The office is the last space in the house that still embodies her and can tell a story of her life.

Maybe the day will come when the desk will be dismantled, the ceramic animals dusted and put away. And maybe that day will be sooner rather than later. And as ugly as it is, the candle will find its way home with me. It's time to burn it again--and see what was so special about the ugly red glob that graced her desk.

Capturing a Moment in Time

Twinkle is definitely her mommy's bird. As her main caregiver that is probably no surprise. Seeing her choose Adam over me or Tony is pretty rare. One night while Adam was reading, she decided to come over and check him out. I asked Adam to stay still and ignore her so I could grab the camera to capture the moment.  At this point, Twinkle was merely assessing the situation, probably thankful that Elise was not in the room.

Adam was obediently allowing this scene to play out. Here Twinkle is giving him kisses while he continues to read. She hasn't quite gotten his attention. If you know Adam well enough you can tell that he has a smile trying to emerge. This was very fun for him to experience such deliberate attention from her.

Adam is giving her his full attention and they are fully engaged in little luv kisses. Adam was giggly at this point but still just trying to respond to her in such a way that I could take more pictures without her getting spooked and flying off. She luves him!

Adam had been stroking the nape of her neck and petting her to give her the attention she was obviously seeking. In an act of submission, she lay her head down to be nuzzled. Every once in a while she'd kiss his chin as he stroked her head. Twinkle cotinually rubbed her head along his face to encourage a connection between them.

This is my favorite picture. Adam was so pleased to be the chosen one--over me or Tony. Here she is expressing 100 percent submission to him. It was such a sweet interaction between the two of them; I love that it shows how even the least of God's creatures have their own little personalities. Who needs a dog when you have such a loving little 90 gram bird!

The Statement Behind the Question

Now that I am firmly in my 40's I'm much more comfortable in my skin. The insecurities that we're like a conjoined twin that plagued me in my teens and into my 20's slowly started to dissipate once I was in my committed relationship with Tony. I am a firm believer that a healthy relationship will allow for personal growth and change, and Tony has been lovingly aside me as I've done just that. Between the security of the love of my husband--and life experiences--I've certainly come into my own; and I think it's been mainly positive growth.

I suppose it's because I finally like who I am and am confident in my life choices that it always surprises me when someone asks me "Once the kids are back in school full time are you going back to work?" And, honestly, I am surprised how many times this subject has come up now that Elise is approaching traditional school age.   I suppose it's what I am hearing behind the question that always takes me by surprise and I feel myself get a little on the defensive. What I am hearing is "As long as you have kids at home full time you can stay home; society will make allowances for you not contributing to your family income. But once your kids are in school you will have all sort of free time and become a free-loader, so it's time to get a job".  Isn't that the implication I"m hearing? OK, so maybe I'm holding onto my insecurities just a little....

When I married Tony in 1998 I became a wife and a full time 24/7 step mom to Tony's two school aged boys --nearly 6 and 9 1/2 years old -- and sadly, they were broken, hurting boys at that. Not only was I learning how to be a wife and learning to share my life on a day to day basis with him, but I was also thrown into being a mom. Oh, did I mention I worked full time for the electric company, too?  For two years I continued to work full time until I finally quit my job when Adam was born. Those first two years were very difficult years and ones that I don't think back on very often. There were not a lot of positive interactions and experiences and I keep them buried in the deep recesses of my mind. They are safer there. Really.

One of the reasons why Tony and I were so compatible, I think, is that we both came from traditional backgrounds. Our parents had both been married 30 plus years and our dads were the bread-winner, while our moms only worked part time throughout our childhoods. We both valued the stay-at-home mom and that was the example we wanted to set for our children. Being a stay-at-homer was a no-brainer for me and a family value that Tony and I embraced.

Over the last 12 years I have worked full time with kids in school, been the proverbial stay-at-home mom, and have worked part time. All three have their benefits and drawbacks. Working full time while taking care of my family was physically demanding and emotionally draining, while financially feeling very secure. There was an air of being partners and I enjoyed contributing to the household financially.

Following Adam's birth I stayed at home full time for 5 years, with Elise arriving near the end of that 5 yr period.  Financially we had to cut back but we managed nicely raising the three boys (and toward the end, adding our little girl). Tony did not love his job but it was secure and he was home for dinner every night.  Being at home full time with an infant./toddler/preschooler is challenging. Not every mom is cut out to do it but I think I made the most of my time with Adam and I look back very fondly on those years. Being there for him in those early years is irreplaceable in my heart.

About the time of Elise's birth we found ourselves reverting custody back to Tony's ex wife and paying her child support. Plus we had purchased a bigger home to accommodate all 4 kids. When they unexpectedly moved out after our move, we found ourselves in dire straits financially for the first time. That is when I started working intermittently. The last 5 years have been my "part time" years. For 18 months I babysat my niece in our home 40 hours a week. She is 5 months younger than Elise so it was a lot like having twins. I loved having a playmate for Elise but it was certainly challenging keeping up with two kids and found myself more house-bound than I was with just Adam. I did not have the freedom I was used to and that was definitely difficult. I also worked as a gymnastics coach for 6 months but they had to replace me after I could not return to work quickly enough following umbilical hernia surgery. By then Tony's job had changed and his hours also changed dramatically. Once he started his endless travels and 12-14 hour business days, working wasn't going so well for me.

Which, in turn, takes me back to the point of my blog anyway. So why are people so concerned with whether or not I am going to go back to work anyway?  To answer the question simply-- No, I don't plan on returning to work so long as my husband provides for us. I will gladly leave what jobs are available to those men and women who need them. If I worked outside the home it is certain that we could live more affluently and the perks of it are nice, but I don't need brand new cars, a yearly jet-setting vacation, high definition flat screen televisions and cable television (Nope. Just regular TV for us. Shocking!).


Clearly, it is the people who do not know me as well who are asking that question. No grass is growing beneath my feet. I am actively participating in the lives of my children, volunteering at school and church and in our community. Our house is (usually) neat, clean and orderly and errands are run. Empty laundry baskets grace the bedroom floors and dinner is on the table on most nights by 6 p.m. After years of raising my step sons and now completing my first decade of raising my own, I feel that I have succeeded quite nicely with the life I've chosen.  I may never stop hearing that question but that's OK. Tony's happy, my kids are happy and I am happy. Who can really ask for more than that?

Never Assume

The inner klutz in me often surfaces near knives, as was reinforced in last month's mishap with frozen hamburgers and the knife I was using to separate them. Oops, I separated the tip of my finger instead. Yuck!

I've also been known to injure myself around water. The most serious time was when I was about Adam's age. I was showing off for my parents doing crazy stunts off our diving board of our in-ground pool. Carelessly, I hit the side of the pool upon impact, knocking myself unconscious. All I remember is vomiting profusely into a towel in my mom's lap as my dad drove us to the hospital. I remember x-rays and still vomiting uncontrollably. Fortunately, I suffered no lasting effects from that other than staying away from diving boards ever since. I don't even enjoy watching the Olympic diving because I think I traumatized myself for life. I sure hope my kids decide to be on the swim team, not the diving team. I think it would send me to an early grave.

More recently, I remember a time when I was in the shower and slipped. Elise was a baby at the time and I was the typical sleep-deprived Mom.  She was napping and Adam was quietly playing downstairs. Fortunately, despite my lack of coordination, I caught myself and prevented serious injury. What I remember, though, is the fear that gripped me. What if I had been seriously injured, would 4 year old Adam know what to do? It was time to ask him.

Presenting various scenarios Adam did know the right answer. "If you are ever sleeping and I can't wake you up, or if you have hurt yourself and can't get to a phone, I am supposed to call 9-1-1." Good. As parents we had trained him properly. But the Holy Spirit was tugging at me. Yes, he has head knowledge, but I want him to actually DO it. Have him use the phone. Being obedient, I handed Adam the phone.  "Show me."

Adam looked at the hand set and pointed to the numbers....but then said "How do I turn it on?". Huge light bulb, fellow moms and dads. In theory Adam knew how to do it but putting it into practice, a whole different thing. I learned my lesson that day and I am grateful that it came without a price.

A Potty Mouth

It may surprise many of you but I believe in evolution. I really do. Okay, not evolution like humans evolved from fossils...blah blah blah. Nope. What I am referring to is parenting evolution. Parenting has really evolved for me in the last few years.

For the first three years I would call it the Physical Attachment era: In the first year, it's all about taking care of the baby's most basic needs. Lots of diaper changes, feedings, baths--and in Elise's case, keeping one step ahead of her colic; on the flip side of that is the attachment aspect. Getting to know them personally and bonding with them--hopefully teaching them that they can trust us and rely on us. The second and third years can be even more demanding as they learn to walk and talk and begin to gain a sense of self and independence. There is a lot of danger intervention in these years trying to keep one step ahead of the next potential accident. Put on your running shoes for about 3 years, parents. Game on!

In our household, with a 5 and 9 year old, we have evolved into one of my favorite eras. This is what I call the Communication phase. Starting around age 4, I really noticed a sense of independence and increased confidence in my kids' abilities to take care of their needs. Adam has been making his own breakfast and packing his own lunch for a few years now. He makes his own bed, takes showers and is a self-starter when it's homework time. What is interesting, though, is watching Elise blossom into her own little person. She dresses herself (albeit often mismatching), brushes her own teeth, makes her bed. I am finding myself having to do less and less for both kids--which I am totally alright with by the way.

However, I am doing a lot more talking. A lot. That's why I call it the Communication phase. They have a lot of questions between the two of them. Adam is in that "not a baby but not a teenager" phase. 9 is the new 13 so I think its safe to say that he is officially a pre-teen. He is noticing things--lots of things--and has questions, and some tough ones at that. We talk about what dating and marriage is about. Even sex comes up in little spurts (thank goodness for the slow entry into this one!) We talk about school and taking personal responsibility. We talk about what peer pressure looks like and why kids tease. We talk about what his personal beliefs are and why we believe the Bible is the Word of God and why we pray. Adam has always been a good talker. From preschool days on I've always been able to get a dialog going about what happened during his day. He'll tell me who he sat with at lunch and what games they played in p.e. Adam will share what book they are reading aloud in class and what book he's reading with his reading buddy. Which special class did he have that day. Yes, there is a lot of talking going on in my house.

Elise is stereotypically a talkative little girl. She loves to pretend, having long conversations with her stuffed animals, doll house family, and sometimes just to herself. She is also the one who asks the toughest questions like "Was Moses the first baby talked about in the Bible?" Wow, good question. I know the answer is no, but I had to think about who was mentioned first in baby form. I think it was Isaac, but you know I'm not even exactly sure myself. Most of the more well known people of the Bible were already adults before they are mentioned so the fact that she even asked that made me know she's always thinking.

As of late, her biggest obsession is with writing words and sounding out letters. Rarely will she go more than 5 or 10 minutes without telling me what a word starts with, or without asking me to spell a word for her. So last week while I was making dinner it didn't really phase me when she asked me to spell ICUP.  For those scholars out there, I know icup is not a word but again, I would have to say this is typical Elise. She loves to combine letters and ask if they form a word. Surprisingly, some of them do. Like when she spelled A-S-S on a pretty picture she was making to give away. Nice, Elise. Good job!

In that haphazard way where our focus is really on one task, but asked to focus on another, I answered her I-C-U-P. I said it slowly, ready for her to copy the letters as I say them. But, alas, no paper in hand so she says "No, Mommy, slowly". Again, I repeat I-C-U-P and say, "Do you have that now?" and turn back to the stove.  For some reason she appeared a little bit huffy as she left the room,  like I was not playing along, and I certainly noticed that her carefree attitude had switched. In just a few moments time, I hear Adam and Elise talking in a quieted hush. Nothing like a little whispering between your two kids to notice that is there is something fishy going on.. That is when Adam came into the kitchen and asked "Did Elise ask you to spell icup?" to which I said "Yes, twice. What's up?"

"Spell it again, Mom. slowly this time" He said in a voice that sounded exasperated, just like his sister. Giving him my full attention I repeated "I C U P". Adam smiled....then I got it. I-C-U-P.  I returned his smile, "Oh, I see you pee. Cute, Adam. Very cute."

Oh, I had forgotten this inevitable stage of life: Potty Talk. That's OK. I could use a few good laughs.

Coming to America

On this Veteran's Day there is a lot of buzz about being an American and the freedoms that allows us. I wonder how many of us really contemplate what that freedom truly means? I presume that for many Americans it's not something they think about --except on holidays such as this or Memorial Day, Independence Day, and maybe Thanksgiving. And that is sad.

For me being an American is part of my family heritage and an important part of my testimony. My mom emigrated from her Yugoslavian born heritage via the Queen Elizabeth, arriving at the port of New York's Ellis Island on February 24, 1950 at 11 years old. After escaping the third ethnic cleansing camp Gakowa (also known as Kakowa and Gakova) on August 10, 1947 a few months before her 9th birthday, they walked over 100 miles to the first steps of freedom crossing into the Hungary border. Can you imagine their relief and elation taking a step into a country where they were no longer in daily fear of losing their lives?  To understand what 'Freedom' looked like, you have to understand from the situation in which they came. For three years they were under the Russian Red Army control. Over the duration of three years they lived in three Yugoslavian towns -- Molidorf, Gudriz and Kakowa -- converted into concentration camps, surrounded by armed guards. They had been stripped of all their worldly possessions and all the documents that gave them their identity. They were prisoners of war who had no proof of who they were or where they came from. They did not exist in the government of Yugoslavia and had nothing to present to explain their identity. All the documents of today: birth certificates, passports, driver's licenses, state identification cards. None of them existed for them any longer. They had all been destroyed in the attempt to wipe out the Yugoslavian country. They were people without a country. Literally. Stepping out of a country of bondage to the first steps of freedom. You can almost hear the sigh of relief.

The third camp Kakowa was known as the 'escape camp'. If you were fortunate enough to be taken there and had the financial or physical means to bribe a guard, escape was entirely possible. My family is among the 'lucky' ones who were able to convince the guards to turn a blind eye to their escape, even aiding them to start out on their trek for Hungary. Walking was done only at night in the darkest hours so they could not be seen. Refuge from the day had to be found in fields or barns and often in the safety of homes and farms along the way who were sympathetic to their cause. No one had much in this time of war but people were generous in sharing what they had. Our family had nothing but a kind smile, a thankful word and a grateful heart to give back.  The journey lasted nearly a month. Another image plays in my mind when I think about this long, arduous journey. My great grandparents were in their late 40's by this time but their bodies were broken. To quote my grandma's newspaper interview "My mother was beaten with slats with nails in them because she would not tell where (her husband) was. She could not. She did not know. She was like a clump of dead meat, all black and blue. She died several years ago, never able to fully recover from the mistreatment she endured".  My grandma who was sent to Russia to work as a slave laborer while the rest of the family resided in the camps in Yugoslavia endured her own terror as she would worked to the bone, nearly dying from overwork. These physical ailments had to be overcome to travel the hundreds of miles that lay in front of them. And my mom at the tender age of 8 -- incomprehensible to me to endure what she did in what should have been a carefree childhood. Personally, I cannot wrap my brain around the pain and fatigue and fear that accompanied every step.

From Hungary, my mom, my grandma and great-grandparents then traveled on foot to Austria where they lived with distant relatives. It was reaching Austria that they finally felt safe. Now in neutral territory they no longer had to fear being turned over to their homeland.  From Vienna via the train, they travelled to a refugee camp in Schalding, Germany. It was there they found a sponsor, a distant relative (The Andersen's) of my mom's to leave from the port in Cherbourg, France to sail to America on the Queen Elizabeth. From New York they traveled to Chicago to work for the Andersen's as indentured servants for three years.

To finally arrive in America and to live in freedom for the first time in many, many years was nothing less than a miracle. God's hand of protection was with them at every turn. They were given a second chance to create a life--a new life. And they did. They worked hard taking nothing that they had been given for granted. They learned the language and worked hard to become honest citizens of this great country of America but never forgetting the life that they had left behind and the men and women who sacrificed to save them.

The Cardinal Bird

Last year on the last day of  August, Adam stepped onto our front porch and heard a rustling deep within the prickly needles of our bush. There was a sweet baby Cardinal trapped within the confines of the buds, eagerly flapping his wings, hoping to find footing in this chaotic environment in which he found himself.

Without hesitation, I scooped him up into the safety of my hands. Certainly still a baby, he had soft gray and brown downy feathers. Upon closer inspection it was clear why this baby appeared to have been abandoned or had fallen out of his nest: His left wing was badly injured.  Having little to no experience with birds, I called a local wild bird rehabilitation center. They were an organization I knew and trusted. The first Mother's Day following my mom's terminal diagnosis she asked in lieu of buying her a gift to donate to one of her animal charities. Knowing my mom's deep affection for birds, particularly hummingbirds, I had selected this local group.

They confirmed for me on the phone that most likely the bird, who was probably born in late July, was being forced to become independent by his frustrated parents. The dependency on parents is very short for wild Cardinals--often being forced out of the nest as young as 3 weeks old.  The harsh reality was that the parents were probably tired of caring for him and despite his health, or actually because of it, over time they would abandon him completely.

Not fully aware of the extent of his injuries and hoping that she was wrong and perhaps he had fallen out of his nest and his parents might still be looking for him, I conclude that he should stay in our yard to see if his parents would come. Under my watchful eye, I hoped he would improve and I would not need to bring him to the center. Our next door neighbors became aware of the situation and the teenage daughter Kate helped me prepare a small box to serve as his nest.                                                    

While I really didn't know much about birds or what was involved in caring or rehabilitating them, I did know that this little bird was going to be my answer to prayer. Just 11 days earlier, we had to put our dog Boo to sleep after a lengthy illness and my own selfish attempt to keep him with us. With the death of Boo, we were pet-less. Our two cats had passed away in the previous two years and I found myself without a pet for the first time in my life. Ever. The silence in the house without Boo was deafening. Not that my sweet old dog was loud; to the contrary he was just an old dog who did little else than sleep--he certainly wasn't capable of running and playing like in his golden days. But he was still my faithful little companion for 14 years--before husband and children--my little guy, and my life was a little too quiet now.

Having this bird to care for filled that void. I diligently fed him water from an eye dropper and fed him seeds and fruit, while Kate collected insects to supplement his diet. I nursed his wing, hoping that while he may never use it, the wing would heal and he could live a quiet life. During the day we kept him outside, where his parents did in deed come back to sit with him and feed him. Yes, they found him and when we were not outside with him, we saw his parents taking the time to care for him. At night we brought him indoors. Coyotes, deer -- even stray dogs and cats-- were a threat in the night. He certainly wasn't able to defend himself and did not want to make him easy prey.
So this schedule continued for a few days. The kids enjoyed holding the baby bird and caring for him the best we knew how. The parents were on-looking in a nearby tree, never too far from where their baby was. But, alas, he wasn't healing and I knew that my feeble attempts to take care of him wasn't cutting it.

Perhaps I already knew it in my heart, but when Carol looked at him from Wild Bird Rehab she said that his injuries were too great. In my ignorance, I did not notice that under the soft belly and downy feathers laid his intestines partially outside his body. There was no way to save him. We were doing all the right things for him and he seemed to not be experiencing discomfort, but he couldn't recover from this. Taking in a deep breath and sighing heavily, this was almost too much for me to hear. I had lost all three of my pets--and my mom-- over the previous 2 years. Could I at least take him home and care for him until he dies naturally, I wondered aloud. To my utter shock and disgust, I heard the words "No". Wild birds are federally protected. Caring for him in a home-care situation was against the law. She could not let me leave with him. While I totally understood the precarious situation she was in, I was at a loss.  Really, I thought to myself. I understood the nature of the law -- to prevent people from taking in wild birds and domesticating them, interrupting the nature of the life-cycle. But this was extenuating circumstances. Surely there was a loop hole. To my frustration, I left with my empty homemade nest and two children who believed that he was going to be treated and released. They didn't need to know the truth. They saw their mom doing the right thing and I was going to give them the happy ending.

At the end of that day knowing that I had unintentionally sent him to his demise, I had the peace in my heart that my intentions were pure and my motives honest. I took the time to care for the least of God's creatures. In the end I had only bought him a few days time--or maybe I had shortened what time he would have had if we had not intervened, but this experience had taught me that as much as it hurt losing one pet after another -- and having to say goodbye to a mom I thought I'd have another 20 years with -- I could love again. Perhaps the baby Cardinal was the just the little soft whisper I needed to hear from God to embrace the idea of another family pet.

Enter Twinkle, our cockatiel. But that story, my friends, will wait for another day.

Meet the Kruegers

Bonnie a/k/a Mommy

Emotional. Analytical. Approval seeker. Insecure
Blogger. Writer. Cropper. Genealogist. Cook.
Leader. Extrovert. Bold. Dreamer. 80's music fan.
Ice cream fanatic. Breakfast skipper. Mom misser.
Stay-at-homer. Volunteer. Organizer.
Bible reader. Christ follower. Truth seeking.
Strength trainer. Insomniac. Animal lover. Good listener.
Wife. Mother. Daughter. Sister. Aunt. Friend.

Tony a/k/a Daddy

Hard Working. Dedicated. Driven. Meticulous. Devoted.
Introvert. Unempathetic. Short-fused. Bone-marrow donor.
Mr. Fix-It. Sound man. Ice sculpture carver. Christ Follower. Lamborghini wanter. Blue Angels fan. Travel lover.
Boy Scout. Mountain climber. Imaginative.
Selfless. Talented. Family Leader. Brilliant.
Husband. Father. Brother. Son. Uncle. Friend.

Adam

Third born. Lego brick master. Medalled Gymnast.
Basketball player. Cellist. Cub Scouter.
Bike rider. Tree climber. Ice cream lover.
Sensitive. Follower. People pleaser.
Loyal. Role model. Kind. Rule-follower.
Servant's heart. Diligent. Son. Brother.
Grandson. Nephew. Cousin. Friend.

Elise

Youngest child. Dramatic. Talkative.
Spirited. Leader. Adventurous. Performer.
Taggie blanket-lover. Dog lover. Shoe lover.
Confident. Curious. Learner. Artistic.
Secure. Rule breaker. Leader. Independent.
Intuitive. Compassionate. Loving. Daughter
Sister. Granddaughter. Niece. Cousin. Friend.

Michael

First born. Adult. Independent.
EMT.  Mind-changer. Free Thinker.
Risk-taker. Emotion driven.
Dreamer. Drifter. Approval Seeking.
Son. Brother. Grandson. Nephew. Cousin.
Friend.

Brandon

Second born. Teenager. Dish Washer.
Rebellious. Tattoo wearer. Avoider.
System challenger. Bold. Leader.
Gadget lover. Impulsive. Talkative.
Extremely intelligent. Unapplied.
Music lover. Car lover. Plane lover.
Son. Brother.Grandson. Nephew. Cousin.
Friend.

Lesson to Be Learned

My heart is burdened today. I've just come off a refreshing three day scrap booking retreat. Along with completing multiple pages, I took the time to really slow down my life. I enjoyed three leisurely solitary walks along the paths of the retreat center. The weather was gorgeous...a short but appreciated Indian Summer, if you will.  I drank in the sun, saying goodbye to the warmth and brilliance in yellow, preparing my heart and mind for the short days and long nights of winter--my least favorite of all the seasons. I lost myself in the second book of the Twilight series, recalling days of my youth when falling in love was new and totally intoxicating. Good food, good conversation and even a little restful sleep.

Returning back home, my mind shifted to the demands of the week....a cooking class with my daughter, a den leader's meeting, fall parties, Halloween, sending in the corrections for the school fundraiser, and at the top of my list, finishing my Bible study for this week's time of teaching and worship.  I'm studying the book of Esther, a specially designed study guide for women by Beth Moore. Esther has been a revealing look at God's character, his faithfulness and how He provides for those who trust Him, even through events most of us would see as tragic. The struggles of life recorded in Esther between 460 and 350 B.C. and  the struggles of today haven't changed much and are still quite pertinent. Along the way I've learned a lot of historic facts of times and places and political/social climate in those pre-Christ days and have noted over and over within these pages that history has found a way of repeating itself into the 20th and 21st centuries.

On Thursday night I found myself mid way through my Bible lesson and emotionally drained. This week was a tough lesson. Genocide, ethnic cleansings, a pre-Hitler holocaust captured and recorded within the pages of Esther. As I closed the book telling myself I would finish the lesson on Monday, a heaviness began creeping in my heart and stayed with me. Even during those quiet walks I found my mind wandering back to the lesson and they continued to sow heaviness and sorrow within my heart and mind. Returning to that lesson today re-opened those raw emotions for me.

One of the greatest gifts we have in today's century is the ability learn about those past events, both blessed and horrific, that have shaped us as a people or nation. The Holocaust is undoubtedly one of most horrific events experienced in our {parent's} generation and there has been a wide array of publications--books, newspaper and Internet articles--even a historically accurate film Schindler's List--to educate and remind us.

For me the Holocaust is personal. Way personal. From October 1, 1944, to August 10, 1947, my mom Hilda, my grandma Anna and my great grandparents Anna and Thomas were imprisoned in the Yugoslavian genocide and slave labor camps that were established by the Russian Red Army under communist Marshal Tito in retaliation of the war.  Few people are aware of this genocide. Two million ethnic Germans died in this massacre. No, they are not considered part of the Holocaust nor are their numbers included in the estimated 11 to 17 million people victimized in the hate crime. It is important to make the distinction between the Holocaust and this Donauschwaben account. While linked by the revenge of war, this genocide was a slap in the face to the Germans.

As a society, we are tragically uneducated in this part of our history. Even my own mother was dismally mis-informed of her own history. Let me go back to 1993 and the release of Schindler's List. I grew up with knowledge of my mom's history and when asked, she would speak of those years she spent as a child in the camps. The movie release started a dialogue in our country and Steven Spielberg created The Shoah Foundation (Hebrew word for Holocaust) to educate and document actual eye-witness testimony in a visual history format.  While my mom openly spoke of her experiences, my grandma would not. My mom was the tender age of 6 when they were initially taken from their homes but my grandma, a very young mother, was only 22 years old. Because she was young, healthy, strong and beautiful, the Russians sent my grandma to Russia to work as a slave laborer. Her experiences were so horrific, so terrifying and so life-altering she could not and would not speak to us about what it was she suffered. Up to her death my grandma refused to speak of those days. Those emotional and psychological wounds were too deep and by sharing her story, she would be sharing the pain--or so she believed. My mom pleaded and begged her to give account--to leave the history for her grandchildren and future generations. Ultimately probably in part because of my grandma's silence, my mom gave me her blessing to contact Steven Spielberg on her behalf. I smile in amusement as I recall her stating that while what her mom went through was important, nothing a 6 year old lived through would have any impact on the world. Mr. Spielberg, she added, would never be interested in her story....
 
"Never" came in 1997 when they contacted my mom and came to her home to videotape an interview for their visual history file. My mom died nearly 10 years to the day of this interview and I cannot convey in words how important those tapes are to me. It gave my mom a safe place to talk about what she saw, heard, felt and experienced. She was able to share about the years leading up to the imprisonment and what it was like to be an immigrant stepping off the Queen Elizabeth in 1950. She shared how those experience shaped her as a wife, a mother, a daughter --and the hand of protection God gave her from beginning to end. Fifty years had passed as she spoke of those events but she could recount beautiful and terrifying images. No, her story is as important as any other. While my grandma went to her grave with secrets and pain, my mom was able to alleviate some of the burden she felt about those days and lay them at another's feet.
 
In the shadow of Shoah, it became abundantly clear to Tony and me that while my mom recalled the dates and experiences, they were not lining up with the Holocaust. She was too old for the war. It was in the awesome age of Internet that Tony and I spent probably hundreds of hours researching her history. I began meeting other survivors via the Internet, finding books published about these special camps. In a year's time we were able to present to my mom details of what she went through and why. We began to grasp what it was my grandma had suffered and lost.  It was in my quest to understand my mom's heritage that I began to understand the importance of leaving a legacy for our children and to preserve the history. For our history to be correct and documented.
 
In the final months of her life my mom wondered why she suffered so much in the beginning of her life -- and now again in the end. Hadn't she paid enough as a child? I told her that I didn't know why God would allow one person to suffer so much but I said that her testimony gives hope to the hopeless. She not only overcame the obstacles in her life, she triumphed and chose victory over defeat, determination and will over failure, and God over Godlessness. Her story needed to be told....needs to be heard.....Maybe now my heavy heart will find that peace.

Pleasantville

Upon retrieving a bowl from our fake lazy Susan cabinet, my finger stuck to the wood. Then just one step to the right, I opened the utensil drawer and my hand brushed across the grain near the handle and it was sticky--again. Related? Probably. Any less gross? No, not really.

Keeping a clean house is a challenge for me and I am a self-proclaimed neat freak and Type A personality. Everything has a place; everything in it's place. So what's the problem here? Sometimes I just get overwhelmed at the task at hand. I like the whole house to be clean and all at the same time. Therein, my friends, lies the problem. Who has the time or energy to do it and to do it well?

Let's take my kitchen as an example. I am messy around food. Chef Ramsey would complain I use too many pots, pans and mixing bowls and I am as big a mess as my surroundings. Once the meal is made I am fairly efficient at loading the dishwasher or hand-washing the big stuff. I'll even wipe down the counter tops; but that doesn't make the kitchen clean. The single man who remodeled the kitchen shortly before selling was brilliant in choosing a white corian counter top. White, really truly? The stainless steel appliances were a beautiful choice too--unless you have children who think it is their job to keep the fingerprints freshly adhered to them.  Even our back splash is stainless steel. Impossible to keep clean.

Walking across our ceramic tile floors your toes will collect a plethora of food particles, dried bird droppings, dust bunnies, etc. The list of possibilities is endless. How often do you move your refrigerator and stove out to clean behind and beneath them? Good Lord, just the amount of food stuck to the sides of my appliances would feed our hamster Little Dude for days. And the inside of the oven? Self-cleaning. Uhh. not really. As duly noted above, my cabinets could really use some attention. Sticky, stained and dirty cabinet faces breed just as many germs as our frequently wiped down counter tops. When I wipe up spills I seem to catch the counter tops and the floors, not really thinking about the pretty little liquid line adhering to the cabinets on the way down. Anyone think to clean their floor boards lately? Then there's our butler's pantry. Even though it is in the kitchen, it seems to collect less food and more paper and dust dirt --that is when you can actually see the counter top. Normally it is piled high of papers, bills, school work, mail and magazines.  Our cute little white TV in the kitchen isn't so white anymore. Years of neglect has tinged it an ugly little shade of  dust. No matter how much I work for it to regain its beauty and crispness, it's just gone, gone, gone.

Back to the bigger picture. We have an average sized home at roughly 2,000 square feet with 2 1/2 baths, 4 bedrooms. That is still a lot of house to keep clean, much less be diligent enough that all the bathrooms, bedrooms and floors are clean at the same time.  Cleaning service? The thought makes me laugh--not that I am not totally in support of it for my ever-growing group of friends who use them. Most of the women I know who use a cleaning service are full time stay at home moms. No judgment coming from me. I tried to get my husband on board with that one, but alas, he couldn't wrap his head around the idea that someone who doesn't "work" can't make the time to keep house. His suggestion was to cut back on my other commitments. Point made but when the activities often revolve around the kids, I have to wonder what exactly should I not be doing in their lives, something that I can actively give up. I don't think that cleaning should trump being present in the midst of the Fall Party, or taking Elise to a Kid's in the Kitchen class. Granted, I get busy filling roles within the school, church or cub scout pack where there is a need. I have found that "high profile" involvement helps you know what's going on in your child's life--getting to know the other families while serving. Even when I am crunching numbers for the fundraiser, which doesn't directly involve my son, I am gaining a sense of community and of the families I do and do not want my son to know better. Believe me, if my husband would agree to just once a month cleaning service, I'd be like a flea on a doggie.  I won't be holding my breath on that one, though.

I daresay my house is more neat and orderly than clean, which is totally not the way it should be. I suppose I am in the mindset that if the piles are minimum, the toys are put away, and dishes in the dishwasher then I can call my house clean. Just don't do the finger test to see whether I've dusted any time in the last week. Just thought I'd put this out there for anyone who in recent weeks have given me accolades to being a Superwoman (Supermom, Superwife), amazing and high-energy. I appreciate the kudos--really I do--please don't stop believing the best in me because I truly do my best to do it all--and well.  I need to know I am not alone.

But if you'll excuse me, I think I have a cabinet or two to wipe down before my company arrives!

Move over, Cookie Monster....."C" is for Crappy

I would venture to guess that most people don't think about sleep. It's something second nature--like breathing. At some point in a 24 hour period you usually do it. The positives of sleeping are endless with a lot of physical, mental and emotional benefits. I would also venture that the only time sleep is on the table for discussion it's because a. you're not doing enough of it b. you're doing too much of it or c. your crappy at it. I fall under the "C" category.

For as many years as I can go back, I can relate to sleep troubles. Until two years ago, I really thought the problem was frequent night wakings, thus on most day, not feeling refreshed or restored. When I was a kid, even though I knew I wasn't sleeping well, I did enough of it that I did not really feel the effects. As a teenager, it definitely started catching up with me. Between school, working part time (usually 20-25 hrs per week) and my social life, I was beginning to feel drained. I could easily sleep until noon and still be tired all the time. College was the time when I was subjected to being the butt of many jokes about going to bed so early (by 10 p.m. most school nights). True, I was also the one who often scheduled the 8 a.m. classes but there was definitely more sleeping going on by me than my numerous college buddies. My friends often existed on half the amount of sleep than me, and yet our sleep debt was probably equal. I was always tired and my friends razzed me about it frequently.

In the early 90's I did an overnight sleep study and they found nothing of consequence. Yes, I woke frequently probably averaging 5 to 7 wakings in one night but nothing "treatable". Up to that point I could only remember sleeping "through the night" one time. It was the night I came home from Trout Lodge 6th grade camp. I slept 10 hours consecutively without remembering any wakings. That was heaven.

Fast forwarding to the late 90's I attributed my chronic fatigue with the demands of being a new wife, and full time step mom to Tony's two young school aged sons and still working 40 hours a week at the local power company. The demands were great and the quality of my sleep had reached an all-time low. Unfortunately, adding my first newborn child to the mix did not help matters. I was a stay-at-home mom at this point and with the continued demands of (step) mothering and being a wife, while dealing with an interfering ex-wife, I was convinced  that whether I had sleep issues or not, stress would keep the quality low. Adam was sleeping through the night by 9 weeks old and I was wondering what was wrong with me that my newborn son could achieve something I could not--restful, sound sleep.

Elise was my breaking point. God love her, she was a lousy sleeper. She finally slept more than 3 or 4 hours at a time at 13 months old. But by now I was at an all-time critical low. I was literally exhausted and had nothing to give back into my marriage. My marriage--my family---my life was all in crisis. I felt I had nothing left to give Tony once the kids were down for the night. I was too tired to care. Our counselor suggested looking into my sleep issues again. Fifteen years had elapsed since my last sleep test and surely technology had advanced. Maybe someone could get to the bottom of it.

During the summer of 2007 I began treatment at a sleep clinic. The initial visits were profiling my risk factors. The highest risk group for sleep disorders include overweight, smoking and drinking males. Over-weight, no; smoker, no; drinker, social only; male, nope. However, profiling my youth showed strong indicators. Growing up I was prone to frequent (weekly) sleep walking, snoring and night terrors. My risk just got greater. We inventoried my sleep patterns and behaviors and by all accounts by the doctor, I was doing everything right and sleep-conducive.

Once the history and likelihood of finding something was established, I participated in an over-night sleep study through our local hospital sleep clinic. Properly attached to 25 to 30 electrodes I was ready to sleep. I was given from 10 p.m. to 6 a.m.. No more, no less. Fortunately, I feel asleep quickly, which actually was quite the norm. Falling asleep was never the issue--staying asleep was. That night was typical, as typical as it can be for having three sleep technicians watching your every movement via the little mini-cameras set up around my bed and having 25 to 30 wires protruding from about every area of your body. I recalled waking up my average 5 to 7 times over the course of the 8 hours, easily falling back to sleep.

Upon wakening I asked the technician 'how I did'. Well, you had some mild sleep apnea episodes-about 3 or 4 an hour, but nothing remarkable, The doctor will let you know". I must say I left there somewhat dejected. OK, so not breathing 3 or 4 times an hour is acceptable and will likely be overlooked. What else could they actually find, I wondered.

Well, wonder no more. My sleep doctor had an impressive file in front of her as she sat me down in her office. She reiterated that I had mild apnea, not necessary to treat. She explains that the average person will have up to 2 to 3 apnea episodes per hour that is acceptable. I am probably pushing the upper limits of acceptable, but we're going to table THAT. However, she continues, I found something almost unimaginable. You woke up 162 times in 8 hours. For good quality sleep you should be in REM stage 40 to 60 percent of your night. Bonnie, you stayed in REM .2 percent. Basically, honey, she says with a sympathetic tone, you aren't sleeping.  Your brain is waking you up idiopathically every 3 minutes. There is no quality of sleep. No wonder you are tired.

Wow! I wasn't sure whether to be relieved or devastated. Perhaps I was a little of both. For the first time in my life I felt validated and actually vindicated that after 40 years of crappy sleep there was a cause--a real medical reason. Over the years I had been harassed and given a hard time by various people in my life. Finally a cause. But the hard part, a solution had to be found. The real work was about to begin.

Unfortunately, sleep medicine research is still a work in progress. Right now, it is more about managing than curing. And, unfortunately, it involves medication along with behavior modification. The good news is that I had already established healthy patterns. I am thin, exercise regularly, eat healthy, non smoker and limited alcohol. I also only consume only 2-3 cups of caffeinated beverages a day. All the right behaviors.

Medications, however, are plentiful but a surprising mix of drugs. For the most part they use old school drugs that were once used to treat psychosis, depression and other mental illness to treat sleep disorders. Quiets the brain and causes drowsiness. Initially there were definitely more misses than hits. All the medications had various side effects: initial drowsiness until the body adapts, often lasting up to 2 weeks, restless leg syndrome, insatiable appetite, weight gain; headaches...the list was endless and, unfortunately, it seemed like I was plagued by the possible side effects, often not tapering off with time. Just one night with the restless leg and I was going to create sleep problem for my poor husband, much less curing mine! The increased appetite was so severe in one case I literally could not stop eating. I was gaining 2 pounds a week. That is fine short term, but long term, it wasn't going to work. Curing one problem but creating another.

During the last two years my dedicated physician has added another doctor to my team. To quote her she said "You are one of the worst cases I've ever seen. I'm a little stumped how to help you You are one of the toughest cases I've ever had".  These two years have been both frustrating and enlightening for me. I guess I had hoped for the "miracle cure" when really all we can do is hope to manage it. Insurance only pays for a sleep study once every two years so I will participate in another one this fall to see if they can see anything new. They are always making advances in medicine and sleep research is no different. They are able to look at brain patterns and see what neurons are firing and misfiring. The medication helps and for that I am grateful. But at the same time now that I know that I should feel better and feel more rested. The doctors and I are curious what sleep patterns I have while on medication. Obviously, I don't remember waking up 162 times so I don't know how much the drugs are really helping.

My current situation is that I sleep anywhere from 4 to 6 hours uninterrupted, but then I have hourly awakenings, if not even more frequent than that. The bottom line is that I am still tired--far more than I had hoped two years down the road. But as I told my doctor. "I feel better today than I did two years ago...if this is as good as I'll ever feel then I'll live with it. In the meantime, we'll keep working toward something better".
My amazingly dedicated doctor left me at my last appointment with encouragement. She said that the fact that I get out of bed each day and am not only functional, but highly functional and contributing is amazing. I should be applauded for not letting this be my excuse for laziness. You fully engage your family, your community and are honest about your limitations.

I silently suffer and I am often met with lack of understanding of how difficult this is because it is not able to be seen or touched. Unless you've been there for extended periods of time, you really can't relate. But I have someone on my side--and for that I am grateful!!